


Familiarity

by sebviathan



Series: in between the lines (there's a lot of obscurity) [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fate, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4909021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AKA the four times Shawn and Lassiter met before they <i>actually</i> met, and when it finally came together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiarity

**February 1977**

 

Most children Carlton's age wouldn't be very excited to be getting a little sister—they'd be angry that the attention of their parents was shifting from them to the baby. But Carlton isn't like other children.

That is to say, there isn't much attention on him anyway. And he's desperate for a friend.

"Don't press your nose up to the glass like that—someone has to clean it, you know."

"I'm just trying to get a closer look at the babies in the nursery! I can't tell which one's Lauren."

His mother, barefoot and in a hospital gown, and looking exhausted but smiling nonetheless, points to a baby sleeping on the far left end.

"She's right there," she tells him.

"How can you tell? They all look the same."

"A mother knows, I guess."

Carlton thinks to himself that she can't possibly know for sure, especially not from this far away, but then, as though reading his mind (or just seeing his skeptical expression), a nearby woman also wearing a hospital gown turns to them.

"She's right, you know—it's actually a matter of maternal instinct."

"How do you know that?" he asks, frowning. Possibly a bit rude, but the lady doesn't seem offended.

"I'm a psychologist.  _And_  a mother."

"Which one's yours?" his own mother asks.

"Oh, he's right next to your baby girl, I think—yeah, he's the one who won't stop crying. Born breech—really lucky that I didn't need a C-section."

She doesn't even need to point; Carlton can see him. None of the other babies have cried this long, and he in fact seems to be waking up some of the babies around him. Carlton wonders if he's in pain.

"What's his name?" he thinks to ask—though he isn't sure exactly why he cares.

"I actually haven't decided yet," she tells him, sounding pensive. "That probably sounds odd, but I thought I should spend a little time with him before naming him... I like ' _Shawn_ '—what do you think?"

Carlton initially thinks that the lady must be asking his mother, but then he sees her looking expectantly at him—and that his mother is no longer even beside him, but seemingly on her way to the bathroom.

"...Why are you asking me?" he says after a moment. "I'm just a kid."

"That's why I'm asking. You know better than I do... Is there anything kids would make fun of about the name Shawn Spencer?"

He knows all too well how cruel children are—they'll find something to make fun of about anything, particularly the parts that you can't control. Does this woman somehow know how much he's been teased because of  _his_  name?

Maybe she really can read minds.

"No," he eventually answers. "...I think it's a good name."

 

* * *

 

**November 1988**

 

Shawn and his friend rip themselves away from his father's side almost as soon as they step into the store.

"C'mon, Gus—we gotta hurry before it's all sold out!"

"I don't think anyone else here is in a rush to get half-priced halloween candy," Gus counters, though he grabs a basket and follows at a running pace nevertheless.

When two ten year-olds run into the candy aisle like they're being chased by an axe murderer, and then start indiscriminately shoving bags of candy directly off the shelves and into their basket, Carlton considers it his civic duty to step in.

"Excuse me, where are your parents?"

Shawn assumes it must be someone who works at the store for a moment—but when he and Gus turn around, all they see is a gangly teenager with his shirt tucked in a little too tight. And then they simply give each other a strange look and go right back to dumping candy into their basket.

_I was just speaking English, wasn't I?_

"Where are your parents?" Carlton asks again, trying harder to put on his authoritative voice.

"None of your business," Shawn laughs. What's  _with_  this guy?

"It  _is_  my business, if you're gonna cause a disruption in the store," he snaps. He's never had children  _not_  be afraid of him enough to respect him, so what the  _hell_? "How do you expect to pay for all that?"

Shawn finally turns around, then, with an indignant expression.

"What, are you a cop?"

Carlton immediately puffs out his chest and smirks slightly. "Well. I'd like to be, someday."

"Well guess what, my  _dad_ 's a cop and he's training me, and I bet I'll be a better cop than  _you_  when I'm grown up."

Somewhere between annoyed and outright angry (plus a bit skeptical), Carlton is all too ready to start arguing with this fucking kid—but before anyone can say anything else, another man, in full police uniform, steps into the aisle.

"Oh—Shawn, Gus, there you are." He can only be that kid's dad, which means he was telling the truth about him being a cop.  _Dammit_. "Put those back—you don't need  _more_  candy, you just went trick-or-treating last night!"

"But it's on sale! And it's my money."

"And it's  _my_  sanity that will be driven up the walls when you're hyped out on sugar. But—okay, you can get  _one_  bag. Choose wisely. Gus, you can get whatever you want, I'm not in charge of you." Then, the man turns to Carlton, looking sympathetic. "Sorry, was my son bothering you?"

Part of him wants to say yes and get that little shit in trouble—but as he glances to Shawn, who scowls and sticks his tongue out at him from behind his dad, Carlton decides they're not worth his time. Especially not having to explain that he was essentially arguing with a child.

"No, Officer, it's fine," he lies, leaving the aisle without even grabbing what he originally went in there for—and throwing that kid one last annoyed look.

Carlton can't help but hope he sees him on the force one day, just to prove him wrong.

Meanwhile Shawn, as he puts away all but a bag of mini Snickers bars, feels his first ever hint of doubt that he even  _wants_  to be a cop. Not if they're all like  _that_.

 

* * *

 

**May 1995**

 

"So you're Detective Spencer's son?"

Shawn turns his scowl away from the wall of the jail cell and out through the bars.

"Yeah, and you're the rookie cop who was too flustered to book me earlier," he sneers. And then he does a mocking impression of Carlton from earlier, laughing to himself. "What, never been asked to arrest a teenager before?"

Carlton just frowns, choosing not to dignify that with a response. But no, he hasn't.

"What'd you  _do_ , anyway?"

"Man, the hell do you care? You look like the kind of guy who thinks anyone who commits a crime is automatically scum."

"...What makes you say that?"

"Your mustache."

Offended and slightly taken aback, Carlton deepens his frown. "What  _about_  my mustache?"

Shawn shrugs. "Nothing, it just looks stupid. Mustaches like that don't work with short hair—and particularly just not on anyone but Tom Selleck or Val Kilmer. You're trying to look like one of those guys, right? Well, it's not working."

_He's just trying to rile you up, Carlton._

He's right, though—he  _was_  trying to emulate Magnum P.I.  _Does it really look that bad?_

"Oh—I get it." Shawn stands up from the dirty bench when he notes that the cop hasn't left yet. His voice draws Carlton out of his 'stache-related musings and back to the edge of the cell, where Shawn is now leaning, gripping the bars. "You're disappointed that  _you_  didn't get to be the one to manhandle me."

At that, Carlton's mouth goes dry. And Shawn can tell, so he smirks.

"What are you talking about?"

"Fingerprinting  _is_  a pretty intimate business. But I wanna say I'm too young for you—you're... what, thirty?"

"I just turned twenty-seven," Carlton tells him. He doesn't know why he's even still here.

"Maybe not, then... Lose the mustache and you could be  _just_  my type. And, well. I'm out of here in less than a week. You'll know where to find me after that."

Shawn then offers him a suggestive, toothy smile, sticking his hand through the bars just far enough to brush Carlton's chest.

Which effectively drives him to finally jerk away and leave that hallway for good, shaken up and wondering what it is that made him want to go down there in the first place.

No way is he taking Spencer's kid up on that offer—if it even  _was_  a real offer. He's only eighteen, he's a detective's son, and he's a fucking  _criminal_ , for Christ's sake. Or at least he's on his way to becoming one. And either way he probably wasn't serious; Carlton would bet it was just some tactic to make him uncomfortable for laughs. He seemed like that kind of guy.

Within the next couple days, though, he does end up taking the advice about his mustache. If only because everyone else in the station agrees that it doesn't, in fact, look good on him.

Just a few days after that, Shawn is released from police custody. And while being dragged out of the station by his dad, he notices the lack of hair on that rookie cop's upper lip.

And he catches Carlton's eyes.

And he grins.

 

* * *

 

**February 2003**

 

He's only been back in Santa Barbara for a month and there's already a serial killer. It's just his luck, really.

It's also Shawn's luck that he happens to see multiple news reports about the so-called "Back Bay Killer" without necessarily trying to—and subsequently noticing something connecting all of them other than the subject of the report:

At every location they've shot at, there's been a blue Sedan parked in the background. After about the fifth he decides it's  _definitely_  not a coincidence, and that he ought to call in a tip.

Now, he could try for a reward, but seeing as this is not only a murder but a  _serial murder_ , attaching his name could possibly bring some unwanted danger to himself. So he keeps it anonymous and calls from a payphone.

And he also thinks he might as well leave Santa Barbara again for just a little while, to be safe. It's not like he has any particular reason to stay here—fuck, he's been living in a motel anyway.

But he doesn't leave immediately—not until after he can be sure that the Back Bay Killer's been caught.

Which is just a few days from then, according to Channel 8 News.

"The impressive close to this case was made by a Detective Carlton Lassiter, whose work on it has, in fact, just made him the youngest ever Head Detective in SBPD history."

Shawn watches from behind a rope rather than a TV screen as a reporter hands a microphone over to the man in question—who fumbles with it, but then beams with pride in spite of himself.

He doesn't consciously remember why, but that name and that clean-shaven face seem familiar. And Lassiter actually seems to notice his look of recognition, for a split second after the interview, and to think the same thing.

Less than a minute later, Shawn hops on his motorcycle with the intention to leave the state.

 

* * *

 

**July 2006**

 

Carlton doesn't remember right away—Spencer blurs together with all the other charlatans and obnoxious criminals he's ever met. He's nothing special.

Until he is.

He's  _very_  special.

Impressive, mostly. Able to make jumps without any apparent evidence, solving cases that he never could have done on his own. It's frustrating—no,  _infuriating_  that someone like him should have that kind of skill and then lie about how he does it.

Even more so that Carlton can't help but be jealous—to admire him, even.

And he doesn't know  _what_  to call it when he gets a sense of genuine familiarity, like he's known him before.

 _You've known liars before,_  he tells himself.  _You've known criminals and gutsy P.I.s and con artists before. He's at least_ one _of them._

But it's different. The way Spencer mocks him, and then turns around and compliments him—and far too frequently even makes a pass at him...  _that_ , Carlton hasn't experienced in a long, long time, if at all. And yet, it's like a perpetual sense of deja vu.

He certainly wouldn't tell anyone, not while sober anyway, but he grows accustomed to him. Spencer's antics become something he expects on a regular basis, and he worries if it stops for too long.

Perhaps he just likes the challenge, the friction that was missing from the workplace? Or the disruption of monotony. Or simply knowing that this new addition has changed his life drastically, and that he wouldn't have it any other way.

Carlton Lassiter has never been a believer of fate, but the idea begins to burn in the back of his mind. And along with it, though possibly on a deeper level, finally comes something else:

He recognizes Spencer, firstly and foremost, as a baby who simply would not stop crying.


End file.
